Like Oiled Silk
by Bant428
Summary: Poetry inteweaves with prose ... the past with the present with fantasy... (frame story told in flashbacks - pay attention to detail to get it)
1. Default Chapter

Title: Like Oiled Silk  
Author: Bant (bant428@hotmail.com)  
Version 3 Notes: Page break indicates the shift from past to present and vice versa. // indicates talk through the Force. Italics indicate internal dialogue/errant or drifting thought.  
  
the night - my haven it glides in stealthily enveloping me in darkness oh so softly  
  
oh my love completion of my soul heat of my body you torture me - oh so softly  
  
you come to me in my sleep tiptoe oh so softly into my dreams  
  
you beckon to me I heed your call I glide oh so softly towards you  
  
my body heats and shudders my chest heaves, then quiets my hands anticipating stroking you - oh so softly my soul threatening to shatter -  
  
- yet oh so softly you fade away leaving me behind  
  
and so I think of you oh so softly as the sun rises and shines on me oh so softly  
  
leaving me with nothing  
  
[Part 1]  
Had I ever felt pain this way? Pain from my very center, the core of my being, the soul of my soul? Pain that walked with me, waking and sleeping, breathing, moving and in repose? Everything tasted of it: the food that I shoved down my throat along with the bitter truth, the liquids I downed that later poured out of my eyes, salty with dissolved hopes and dreams and loves. Everything looked like it: the clothes in my wardrobe rustling with my wish to stun him with my "beauty," the journals that smelled of musty, stale emotion, the flickering of the holoscreen flashing shows as mindless as my abandon of logic when it came to him. All voices sounded like his -- my own voice said what he said. He -- and the ceaseless pain -- was there everywhere I went, his thought so deeply mingling with mine until I didn't know my soul from his.  
I wish it had been love. This -- this was much more complicated. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------  
I had gotten to know him because of something so mundane I can't believe it led to the completion of my soul. We met because I couldn't get a schedule change.  
It was my second day of my first year at the Academy for the Humanities, a large school in Theed renown for its alumni who became famous in art, literature, music, drama, politics, and as priests and priestesses. Those of us with talent in one of those areas were pulled out of "general" schools and placed here as soon as our gifts were recognized. Some students were talented in many areas; most were on sponsorships. I wasn't. The daughter of affluent merchants, I got in because of my poetic talent, but many whispered that my parents' ample funds were the real reason. I still had many friends at the school, yet we never seemed to progress to a deeper level of friendship.  
I was arguing at lunch with "The Nerf," the smelly old woman in charge of the arrangement of classes. Her nickname had been used for so long, nobody knew her real name or was brave enough to ask.  
"I don't want to be in this Naboo Studies class," I pleaded, trying to remain calm. "I need to switch."  
"Why is that?" She looked at me, her eyes surrounded by unpitying wrinkles.  
I really had no "valid" reason, by the school's standard. I had a great reason by my own standards. Sergeant of Historics Goojiprat Kibop taught the other class, Nubian History. Kibop was half Corellian and half humanoid, a novelty on Naboo, charismatic, and young, and engaging. His name to the general student body was "Go-jeer-at Kibop." He was highly controversial, but definitely more fun than the Naboo Studies teacher, General of Historics Dofrey, a dry, senile, lecherous old man.  
"Ummm... I have to change my, umm, schedule..." I knew I had no case.  
"You have no case." I could have pulled on The Nerf's ugly face until the ancient skin tore open. But instead, I stretched my own face taut with an artificial smile.  
"Thank you for your help, anyway."  
"Go to class." I ran off to my last class of the day, Advanced Basic Usage 2, a level above the others in my grade. As I rushed through the door, I mentally cursed myself. I could have come up with some good excuse! Communication was my specialty, after all. But I shoved my thoughts and anger aside to immerse myself in my one steady love, language.  
The next day, I pulled a loose garment over my upper body before entering Naboo Studies, for the ogling teacher's benefit. Halfway through the class, as I was fending off sleep, a student rushed into the class. I recognized him as Otim Allyw, an acquaintance of mine. "I'm so sorry," he gasped. "I came back from vacation yesterday, so this is my first day, and I was lost..."  
"Shut up!" yelled Dofrey. "Sit down!" Otim's liquid brown gaze moved across the room, looking for a seat he could take. The other students eyeballed him suspiciously, and moved their bags onto empty chairs. There was an empty one in front of me, however.  
"Here, Otim." I gestured towards the empty desk.  
He smiled at me. His grin seemed slightly lopsided, but very sincere; it brought out a sort of handsomeness in his face. As Otim sat down and Dofrey began to drone again, I couldn't but notice how a sweet smile had planted itself onto my face and the warm, fuzzy feelings spreading through my body.  
A piece of paper fell into my hands.  
Thanks for being so nice. It's hard being stupid in a neurotically academic school. Otim  
I scrawled back, No prob. I really know what it's like. I'm not exactly a genius either, unlike the rest of the school, evidently. Anyeh  
He smiled, and my heartstrings tugged.  
Suddenly, a loud bang disturbed Dofrey's monotonous lecture. Through the door marched a young woman with long bland hair, blue-green eyes, and a most intimidating manner. I saw Otim startle in recognition at the sight of her.  
"What's the problem?" asked Dofrey, eyeing her. The woman's clothing was a lecher's dream come true.  
"There is no problem. This class has been classified as unethical by Code 987-09." The class tittered. Code 987 was the student's Bill of Rights, Number 09 was the right to have an engaging class. "This class is now Study Hall. General Dofrey, you are now retired."  
There was nothing to do in that class but converse. "Do you know that woman, Otim?" "Yes. What do you think of the Senate?" I guessed he didn't like the woman and answered his question, which sparked an interesting, civilized debate on politics between us. As Otim and I talked about different things, I suddenly realized I had never, ever clicked like this with another mortal being. We had so much in common; it was unsettling, bewildering (like the gaze of his brown eyes) -- yet I was enjoying every millisecond of the conversation. It is amazing, wonderful, and indescribably beautiful to have one's mind synchronized with another's. We could not guess each other's exact thoughts, but we reacted to each other's actions and words so perfectly, we almost had. He knew exactly what to say -- as if he could read my mind. I wondered if Otim enjoyed it as much as I did, or if he had even realized the unspoken connection between us two. I was sure our minds were in sync. I had never realized how amazing a person he was when we were mere "acquaintances," eating lunch and socializing in the same circle of friends and friends-of-friends.  
The bell rang, and we both walked together out of the class, continuing our conversation. I loved the way he listened: as if I was the only being in the galaxy, saying things monumental to the fate of the universe -- the opposite of my chattery nature.  
The days ran together, turning to weeks. I found myself looking forward to Study Hall, lunch, after school -- any time I was with Otim; at times, they were the reason I dragged myself out of bed and on towards the Academy. Our conversations were thought provoking, insightful, his wit infusing each word with different meanings. Like the passage of time, my emotion began to run into itself: acquaintanceship to friendship to closeness to something more, something beyond. Even as I had "fallen" for other boys before, I had dreamed of the perfect soul mate: a confidante, steady yet blessed with situational immaturity, witty. I had never thought I would find him, but I had. That scared me; it was as if he knew what my innermost needs were. I knew that Otim was popular and had many friends, yet I felt special; we had connected on a level that I hadn't thought possible for platonic friendship. Yet as time sauntered on, my stable thoughts began to unsteady, then refocus on a level, you might saw, was "non-platonic." I had astonished myself, for a time, with my own intelligence and wit, speaking using only double meanings. Basic, the former love of my life, was used to subtly hint of the true love that spanned passed all lifetimes. I had begun to dream in a bizarre, vivid way, as I never had before. I would often believe that the dream had actually happened for hours after I had awoken. Some of the most real imagery was of ice and snow flakes, coldness; a male voice singing, singing, creating the snowflakes, and I would follow the snowflakes to find the singer and it was Otim, and I kissed his blue lips, making them red with the heat of my desire... There was a special mood that seized me, a spirit that possessed me, whenever he was near. The spirit whispered to me, love, love love, made my feelings glide softly, stealthily, subtly off my tongue like oiled silk off of the smoothest of metals. When my soul was effortlessly dancing to the tune of love, it didn't matter that Otim showed no romantic interest towards me. I was caught up in the storm of pleasure that came from simply being in love.  
The feeling would pass in time, however, and would leave me colder and in even more despair. He didn't seem as calm anymore; his attitude was changing slightly while my feelings were turning like the tides under the moons. Everything that I lacked, he had. Whatever he faulted was my strength. We were alike, yet different, two halves of the same whole... My thoughts became pleasantly vague... We were like the two halves of one lip, I wanted to touch his lips with my fingers, see if they felt as smooth as they looked, then feel his satiny lips on my cheek, then press my own lips onto his...  
"Anyeh? Anyeh?"  
I jerked my head up. "What? What?"  
The class giggled. Private of Historics Garfeen, the young, female replacement for Dorfey, glared at me. "Would you like to join us, or are you enjoying your little vacation too much? Perhaps you were on Coruscant, huh?" She scoffed at my silence and resumed teaching. Otim looked back at me and flashed his grin. Oh, how desperate I was growing for non-platonic feelings resonating from him to me! I knew how the back of his head looked from each and every angle, how the little hairs at the nape of his neck stood up when he came up with a brilliant idea to tell the class, how whoever cut his hair had missed a spot, how tense his shoulders were getting these days. I wanted to make him relax, speak soothing words to him, massage his shoulders, his neck, his back. It wasn't carnal, but a sincere wish to smooth out his life for him. I suddenly realized that my hands were moving of their own accord -- to the tensest spot of his neck. The fingers began to knead the flesh. The touch of his skin against mine was absolutely electric. I was genuinely surprised that I hadn't seen sparks. He turned around and looked at me in bewilderment.  
The bell rang, and the class began to shuffle at the same time. Embarrassed, I sprung onto my feet and walked quickly out of the classroom. Halfway across the corridor, a dark hand clasped my shoulder and turned me around. Otim looked at me, his eyes bewilderingly mocking, looking like emeralds in the sunlight, yet somehow kind. Before I knew it, I couldn't see anything. In an instant I realized that it was because my eyes were closed, but it didn't matter. The warm pressure of Otim's lips on mine was all that mattered. I felt my body turning to goo in his touch. For a crazed moment, I thought he was killing me, pressing me so hard that I could barely draw breath. But the insanity left as quickly as it had come. As we both paused and broke the kiss simultaneously, I could have sworn that I felt eyes watching us. No one was there or could have possible been watching, except for the teacher. Let her have more of a shock, then, I thought. But by the time I tried to resume the kiss, Otim was gone.  
I was in another world the rest of that day, lost in daydreams of Otim. I finally got to see him at the end of the day. I attempted to speak in a husky voice and seductive tone. "Hello, Otim."  
I guessed he had caught onto my implied meaning. His eyes were irritated gems glinting gold. "Not here, Anyeh."  
"Where else?" I was at my element, sensing the irregular tenseness of his body.  
"Anyeh." He wanted me to stop.  
What was going on? Hadn't he started the kiss? //Yes, I did.// I was startled. I had I thought out loud? Why hadn't his lips moved when he spoke? He began walking, and irritability filled me until I realized he had meant for me to follow him. I quickened my pace until I reached him, then walked with him. We walked in silence, until we reached a large house. "My place is in here," he said. Surprisingly, the front door was unlocked. We walked in, and I realized that this place was once a house, but had been converted into an apartment complex. Up a staircase we went, until we reached a small-looking room. Swiping a card through a slot, he pressed a button on the door. It whooshed open. The apartment was dingy, dark - little furniture or color and nothing on the walls but a grayish paint that might have once been white.  
He sighed. "I have to tell you something."  
His tone was sad, angry, yet resigned. "What is it?" I let concern color my voice.  
"Anyeh, I'm an or.well, I might as well be an orphan, for all my parents can do for me." He broke away from my intent gaze and looked around the room nervously, his brown gaze flickering.  
"Go on. Er, if you want to." His palpable unhappiness made me fell nervous.  
"I'm a.a.no-caste."  
I gasped. Those were people of usually illegitimate birth, unwanted by their own parents. I then felt sheepishness overtake me. "Sorry." I began  
"Yes, I'm the result of a failed love experiment. No, not all of us are total freaks. I was one of the last. Tell me all you think you know about us. Let loose; I don't care."  
I racked my brain. "It was the secret venture of two married couples to have enhanced 'super-children,'" I recalled. "Half of all the children produced died at birth. Out of that, half only reached their second birthday. The ones left behind, with two exceptions, had many flaws and are under government confinement. The couples are locked away indefinitely." I tried to mentally recall the traits the couples had been trying to give to each child individually: logic, artistic ability, beauty, willingness, submissiveness, fearlessness. I had the oddest feeling that I had forgotten that one trait that the deranged couples had wanted for all the chidlren.  
He laughed bitterly. "Do you know how it was done?" His eyes glinted like marshy ponds full of dead hopes. Though I couldn't recall the specifics, I knew that it was gruesome, so I shook my head no.  
"Well, that's how I got into the Academy. Artistic ability." He gave an odd chuckle. "I was actually a failure for my 'parents.' They had left a slice of a normal brain in me. I could function on the verge of normal. They wanted a perfectly insane child."  
I mentally wondered how hard it was for him to manage to look "normal." Before I could open my mouth, he answered that question for me. "It's hard, but I can keep up my pretenses. I take medication that helps me. This house is actually a place for those of us cursed from birth to seek a haven. Our 'problems' range from illegitimate birth to born reliance on spice."  
I never knew groups of people like them existed! My pity burned into curiosity, but I managed to keep it under control. As Otim and I sat together, I realized how close we were on the couch, how the apartment had a lovely, spicy scent.how much I wanted to kiss him again. So I did. I wouldn't have been surprised if the world had ended right there; I had never felt so alive. My hands caressed his shoulders and back, relaxing their tension. He put his hands around my waist. Pressed against each other, out hearts began to follow the same rough rhythm. I never wanted to stop, but he pulled away, trembling. I looked at him, puzzled. Could he not feel how right it was? I heard him mumble something like, "If garden finds out." He was making no sense.  
"Do you need your medication?"  
"No! I mean, no. No. Thank you. I'm sorry I ever brought you here or that I burdened you with my history. Forget this afternoon." I saw tears glistening on his eyelashes and in his brown eyes.  
"I can't go back now. I - I love you, and I want to help you." I brushed a strand of hair from his face.  
He snatched my hand away, his green-gold gaze protective. "Don't say that. Don't do that. It's doomed to come to nothing."  
//I. Don't. Care.// I pulled him towards me, and worked on helping him to truly experience love for the first time.  
Looking back, I wished I had fled that terrible room, gone away from the terrible secrets of that house. Even though I had stayed, it hadn't come to nothing. If only it had! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------  
I stare inanely at the holovids. A ridiculously popular, live drama is on.  
"I'm not really Jasung. I'm his clone!" a male actor declares. I sense the collective gasp of the audience galaxy-wide. Like I give a load of Sithspit.  
"But - how can this be?" wails an impossibly beautiful actress, her hands wringing dramatically. "I knew Jasung! You're just like him?"  
//Ever heard of flash memory, fool?// I send the scornful message to her. On the screen, I see the actress nearly jump. "I am not a fool!" she declares. The galaxy-wide audience can't make sense of what she means by this piece of unscripted dialogue, but holodramas never make sense anyhow. I still feel smug pleasure. I bet you didn't say that in rehearsal, Sithspawn, I think triumphantly.  
I mentally shake myself. Is that what I am reduced to? Throwing off the hideous perfection of the holodrama actors? Or is it.yet another trait he gave to me: ridiculous cruelty? No - I shouldn't think about that. I flip through the frequencies on the holoscreen. Everything seems meaningless. Nothing, nothing. Like the nothingness that fills me. I feel that distinct pain creep up through me, giving me a sense of ceaseless loss and eternal despair. Why do I try? Why do I bother to live? The ache of loneliness grows unbearable. I have to fill it up somehow - it has to go away! I curl up in a fetal position, trying to squeeze the loss out of my core.  
There is a mocking buzz coming from the entrance to my apartment. I pull on a robe and open the door. The landlord barks at me immediately. "Pay me by tomorrow, or you're out on the streets. Or worse." I know that he means what he says. I slide the door closed again and think. The little hoard I brought from Naboo is running out. There isn't enough left for a decent meal, let alone for this month's rent. I take stock of myself: young, smart but tarnished by memories I cannot forget, a skilled writer with no reputation or records with me, not particularly pretty. Even if I could get hired tonight, a few hours' work at any of the seedy bars around here would not be enough for my rent.  
My brain begins to play a sound: "If you ever need a quick job, Anyeh, drop by my place. I'd hook you up. You'd make great business, even if it's just 'cause you're so new." It is the voice of my neighbor, known only by one name, Qobarlu. Though he seems cultured on the outside, all know what his business was. Women who call him "Daddy" doze in his house by day and leave by night, sometimes returning quickly with men, sometimes coming back by dawn. I know it is vile, but do I care anymore? I feel a sense or irony. I could finally be a priestess, as I had always dreamed of, but to the one Nubian goddess whose priestesses did not command true respect.  
I buzz at his door. "Who is it?"  
"It's Anyeh, your neighbor," I say, as pleasantly as I can.  
The door slides open. "Well well well, if it isn't the brand-new, naive Nubian. What can I do for ya?"  
I can't keep my voice from shaking. "Can you.erm." He isn't jumping in and trying to help me as I had hoped. "Ummm.hook me up? I need to pay my rent by tomorrow. You know how the landlord gets."  
"Welcome in, Anyeh. If you work hard tonight, you'll have enough to pay three months of rent, huh huh." The amused laughter inside the room removes what semblance of confidence I have left. Shaking inside, and perhaps visibly, I walk into a smoky room full of painted women and one young man, probably a leftover of the night before.  
One of the women shakes her head at me and says, "Well, the clients'd be paying to rent her, first." This is, apparently, quite funny to the women, and they laugh, their voices husky from the dried pinja spice they are smoking. I'm really scared now. Would I ever be down (or up, depending on one's perspective) to their level? Maybe feeling a warmth besides my own next to me might help to melt the cold that fills me. I resolutely looked up at Qobarlu. "Who do you think would rent me, Daddy?" ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------- 


	2. Part 2

Title: Like Oiled Silk  
Author: Bant (bant428@hotmail.com)  
Version 1 Notes: Page break indicates the shift from past to present and vice versa. // indicates talk through the Force. Italics indicate internal dialogue/errant or drifting thought.  
  
to whom, I implore should I implore to?  
  
the sordid heat of night stretches its bloated body over all the Light and that which blinds me from what is Truth that which haunts in uncertainty and in sooth that which taunts  
  
to whom, I implore should I implore to?  
  
the facade of confidence liquid in its fickle form begins to condense becoming cool from warm becoming solid and warm becoming solid and real into that which haunts in slight and fancy I feel that which taunts  
  
to whom, I implore should I implore to?  
  
the cold soft winds blow and tickle the heat's bloated skin the way receded rivers flow the way backwash emotion's din drones out all of my thought that which forever haunts me the love that Love forgot that which forever taunts me the love that Love forgot  
  
[Part 2]  
I lay on my back, unable to comprehend that which I was feeling. The sordid thoughts and dreams of my virgin mind were nothing - paled in comparison to the flushed face of my new reality. It was as if I was made to do this, as if I had been consecrated for this long before I could remember, perhaps in another life.  
//That may be. I know you more than anyone else, Anyeh. More than anyone could.//  
I did not start at the wordless exchange of dialogue. It now felt natural, now that I knew what purpose I had in life.  
//That's true, love. We understand each other.// I felt smug when I thought of the world that came before that we. I had never truly belonged before. Not completely or on a deep level, as now. My smugness only grew as I thought back, further into my life.  
I was born into a trading family, where one's business associates, subsequently, etiquette, were foremost. If those born into politics complain, they have yet to meet traders. The issues at hand with us were more important than politics - traders deal with economics. Though my family had money, I was raised with more austerity than some poor Nubian farmers were. Traveling across the galaxy, I learned tolerance without sincere compassion, disdain without hate, straightforward talk devoid of frankness. The general attitude was detached, without any heartfelt sincerity.  
Trained in these arts from the time I could talk, I was always surrounded by people. In the beginning, these were the children of traders, like myself. When I began to assert my independence, I "chose my own friends." Looking back, I realized that I had picked people just like myself: small-talkers who could converse for hours without saying anything - in short, people my parents loved. I had a few "best" friends, but lost contact with them. I had never admitted that I had lost touch with them; instead, I kept deferring contact.  
I realized then that each "best" friend was easily replaceable - and was replaced by the next one. But I could never replace him.  
//Nobody knows you like I do.// He pulled me towards him and kissed me as if he would never see me again - as if he could never get enough. Any intelligent thoughts I had melted away.  
There was coldness, ice everywhere, but there was a song that was melting the ice. I follow the direction of the notes, and they lead me to my love, but he shatters into shard of ice, like the rest of it all. But I shouldn't be thinking these thoughts. If I think in words, then I may articulate the words, and that would break a Pact made long, long ago.I am bound to an Oath, that I may not express to others, that says I may not articulate the Oath, because that's what the Pact says I must do, not to say anything, for talk is Betrayal, and could there be any worse crime? No, I shall stay dumb, dumb as a fish - but fish open their mouths and I won't, I won't, except to receive my Love.  
//And that's what you shall do.// I felt an inexplicable longing satisfied, as well as the pain of the death of a part of me I was born with.  
I mourned for a short period of time. Short, indeed. For I have someone to replace the something I once held dear. Dear, oh dear. My dear is right here! That rhymes! I ought to write a poem. It could be a parody, written by me! Yes! It will be so funny! I began to compose it mentally. It was a riot, and I could not control an irrepressible giggle, that grew to a laugh, a sob, a cough. Convulsions rioted through my body. I soon realized that I wasn't breathing - that I couldn't breathe.  
Otim watched me. He seemed.fascinated, in a trance. NO! He just doesn't know what to do. Mental rebuke taken into account, I continued coughing, but my throat felt pinched and dry, and even seemed to shrink.  
Suddenly, Otim fell out of the trance, looking boyish and silly, unlike himself. He proceeded to grab me and kiss me in an oddly desperate way. It was as if he wanted me, which he did, but couldn't have me. But he had already had me! I felt a smile trying to uncurl on my lips underneath his ferocious kiss. I gently pushed him away. "What's the matter, love? I'm not going anywhere."  
By some trick of the dying sun, his eyes seemed to have changed color, from solid green and gold to a liquid brown. His voice was husky and unsure. "You said no. stop playing games."  
"What ever do you mean? Otim, what's wrong?"  
"I - I don't know. How did I?" He looked at me, as if noticing for the first time that I was next to him on a warm sofa. The scared look on his face told me that it was time for me to go.  
I pulled on my cloak and began to leave. I thought I knew what was eating him. I had mourned for my purity - albeit shortly - but I had mourned. He was just feeling the passing grief that had so quickly passed over me.  
Suddenly, I heard a slurred voice that, amazingly, managed to mutter and scream at once in its speech. "Otim! Whaddya doin'?" A door opened and I heard feet padding feebly on the floor. The odor of spice was rampant.  
His gaze turned fierce. "Go! Now."  
I hurried out of the door, as my deepest instinct had told me to do long ago. I can't tell you where my mind was, but I somehow reached the Trader's Block. My feet took me to my house, up the stairs, past the screaming parents, to my bed. Every bit of resistance in my body evaporated, and I let the fuzzy warm blackness take over my reality. 


End file.
